


They Fight Crime

by EagleOfTheNinth



Series: They Fight Crime [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XII, Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Crossover, Gen, most terrifying team ever, shameless crack, they fight crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:03:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EagleOfTheNinth/pseuds/EagleOfTheNinth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's a Pulsian.</p><p>He's a member of the Archadian ruling family.</p><p>Together, they fight crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Fight Crime

**Author's Note:**

> This work was born during a conversation with my friend Caity-sinestris on LJ. While talking FFXIII in an email I discovered that she was Australian, and of course the idea of talking Thirteen with a Pulse girl tickled my funny bone greatly. As I am English, and there are no Brits in Thirteen, I added, I would have to be a world-hopping visitor from Archadia, and declared that we were 'Oerba Reab Caity and Aquila Aurelias Solidor. Together we fight crime!'
> 
> And thus this crackfic was born. There are more stories in the 'verse, which may or may not be posted. Watch this space. :)

The chocobos here are very nearly like the ones Vanille remembers from Gran Pulse. Their proportions are a little different; the shape of their beaks, the colour of their eyes. The yellow shade of their plumage. But like the chocobos of her home, they are intelligent, and proud-hearted, fierce, kindly, and _fast_.

Almost the same. And almost like Cocoon chocobos, too. But not quite.

Vanille grips her mount a little tighter with her knees, fixes her eyes on the armoured vehicle cutting a swathe through the dust ahead of her, and does her best to focus on the similarities.

The chocobo makes a tiny noise of protesting weariness; it’s not fair to it, poor thing, to expect it to keep up with a machine over all these miles of desert. She strokes its neck, murmuring encouragement. “I’m sorry,” she tells it, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to do this, if I could only-”

-but then, if she _could_ , she wouldn’t need to chase the war-machine across this foreign desert at all.

She’s close, now. Close enough to reach into her mind for the heavy-air feeling just before a storm, let it build up in her, then unleash it with a wordless cry. Lightning strikes the tank, scorching, blinding-but it pools and puddles off the mechanical monster like it’s nothing more than a special effect from the Pompa Sancta parade, or from the holo-shows she and Fang used to watch, back in Oerba. She tries again, screeching with thwarted fury-but again, no use. Fire then-fire-water-blizzard-aero, none of them, none leave the slightest mark-she turns to earth which is hers and hers forever, and her chocobo shrieks in terror as the ground rises up and cracks, but it’s too late. It’s not enough. The tank is damaged, but not enough to stop or even really slow it, and her poor chocobo staggers to an exhausted halt.

She wants to scream, but she’s tired herself out, too, and all she can do is weep. The tank gets smaller, and smaller still, till it’s a child’s toy, a speck the size of a fly, and then nothing at all. Her eyes are fixed on it still, and then on the place where it was, as it disappears into the distance.

Eventually, the chocobo’s pants and whimpers rouse her enough to slip down from its back and open her canteen of water for it. Her legs feel wobbly under her. At home, magic came at a price marked in death and pain on her thigh, but magic itself was never _hard_. Casting a spell was easy as breathing, natural as thought. Here everything’s warped and twisted out of shape, and using it is as tiring and difficult as trying to claw through the shell of an adamantortoise with her bare hands.

She barely even feels the ache of her brand anymore, the constant throb that never went away. She never thought she could _miss_ that. But she does. The fal’Cie were cruel and the fate they laid on her was terrible-but oh, she _understood_ it, she could face or deny it, it was hers and of her and of her world and it made _sense_ in a way that nothing in this nameless insane mockery of reality does. It’s like Cocoon, how she felt when she first woke up there-but so much worse. Cocoon was made from the stolen earth and stone of Gran Pulse, crafted by fal’Cie born to Her and filled with Her people. Who made _this_ world? Who shaped it, and from what clay? What people are they that live here, never born of Pulsian blood-

“You’ve given it all your water.”

She hadn’t noticed her companion approaching, too focused on her own despairing thoughts and bone-deep weariness. His voice is rebuking, but concerned. He looks almost as tired as her; almost, but not quite. He’s been riding hard, but _he_ hasn’t been casting magic, after all.

“I’m sorry!” she blurts out, blinking fast to hold back tears. She’s not sure if she’s apologising for letting the chocobo drain her canteen, or for failing to bring down the tank, or, most probably, both. Regardless, crying will only make things worse; it never helps, ever, and in this hot dry land tears are a luxury they can ill-afford. “I didn’t-I wasn’t-”

“It’s all right.” That tone in his voice reminds her of Fang, and of Lightning; it means _It’s not all right, and it can’t ever be-but it’s not your fault_. He takes her empty canteen from her hands, presses into them instead his own half-full one. “You’ve overexerted yourself. You need this more than I.”

She wants to sob even more, at that; but instead she raises the canteen to her lips. The water is lukewarm and tastes of metal, but it seems to her like the best thing she’s ever drunk, better than cherry sherbet from Nautilus or the rich mango lassi that she always used to beg Fang’s mother to make for them. She forces herself to take small, careful sips. “I messed up, Vayne,” she tells him, redundantly. “I couldn’t do it.”

“I can hardly condemn you for failing in the execution of a task I do not have the faculties to perform myself.” His hand touches her shoulder for a moment, grim and gentle reassurance. “Our plan was flawed from the outset and born of desperation; given the careless manner in which they treated us, it should have been obvious to us both that they were not concerned about our retaliation. It is not such a great leap to deduce that they had reason to be unconcerned.” He shakes his head. “This must not defeat us. From now on we must be more careful in our methods. Reckless assaults upon a powerful enemy merely play into that enemy’s hands.”

“Careful,” echoes Vanille, glumly, staring into the canteen. “I don’t feel-it’s hard to be careful and logical and all that, Vayne.” Her voice wavers. “They’ve got _Hecaton_.”

How can she possibly convey what that means? Hecatoncheir is her Eidolon; he had never heard of Eidolons, till he met her. How can she explain the pain of it, of having part of her soul ripped out? How can she explain the betrayal, the ridiculous illogicality of being deprived of the being who was closer to her than blood and breath, as though her heart had been removed-and yet she continued to live? How can she explain the misery, the endless gaping lack, the howling emptiness where there should have been Hecaton’s love and strength? Wasn’t stealing her away from her love and her family and her very world enough-no, they had to take from her that last comfort, tear him away from her and leave her so totally alone? Vayne’s not a l’Cie. He can never understand...

“They have Venat, too,” says Vayne quietly. So quietly, but his eyes are grey as steel, furious as the storm. He _does_ understand, she realises. He may not be from her world. He may not have a brand. He may never have known the touch of a fal’Cie, or the shackles of a Focus. But whatever Hecatoncheir is to her, Venat is to him-whatever she might be, some strange being neither human nor l’Cie nor fal’Cie nor Eidolon, something Vanille has no knowledge of or words for, Vayne loves her. She may not be an Eidolon, but she is _his_ Eidolon, regardless. Venat is Vayne’s and Vayne is Venat’s, and every bit of the pain and horror Vanille is feeling right now, Vayne understands, because he feels it too.

This world is as strange and horrible to him as it is to her. They’re in this together. How could she forget that?

“Incautious and unplanned assaults will not reclaim your Hecatoncheir,” Vayne continues. “But we _will_ reclaim him, I promise you. It may take time, and thought, but we will reclaim him. I am a son of House Solidor; we are dangerous enemies for any creature or power to make. And we keep our promises.”

The dark mane of his hair, the firm set of his jaw, remind Vanille of Fang, though Fang never had such a rich, strange voice, or eyes so grey. He’s been a good ally to her, since they both were yanked into this foreign world; more than that, he’s become her friend. And though this is not Gran Pulse, she is still Hallowed Pulse’s daughter, and she still knows to count friends as holy. She lifts her chin, determined, hands the canteen back to him, and locks her fingers in the sign of prayer. “The Dia clan of Oerba keep our promises, too,” she tells him. “And _I_ promise that we’ll get back your Venat.” She reaches out, daringly, and pats him on the arm. “We’ll find them, and we’ll get home. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Vayne takes a sip from the canteen to mask his expression, but she can see the way his eyes crinkle up in a smile. “I thank you,” he tells her. And she knows he means it.

He’s not alone and neither is she. They can do this.

“I saw some cactuses over that way,” she adds. “We can go get water from their stems.”

Vayne glances at the tall green shapes she indicates, and nods. “The nomads of Dalmasca do something similar,” he agrees. His mouth quirks a little. “Though I do believe the correct plural is _cacti_.”

“Pedant,” Vanille retorts, sticking out her tongue; and both of them surprise themselves by laughing.


End file.
